


7B

by cupcakekillian



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 11:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8283725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupcakekillian/pseuds/cupcakekillian
Summary: Things Emma Swan loves about her new apartment: the water stains, the chipping paint, the cabinets that are falling off the hinges, and the radiator that makes an ungodly hissing noise.Things Emma Swan does not love about her new apartment: she can hear and smell everything going on in the apartment below her... And 7B just happens to be a smoker... CS Neighbors AU





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a thing that happened to me once... I didn't meet Killian Jones unfortunately

Emma Swan loved her new apartment. 

 

She’d finally been able to move herself and her son out of subsidized housing after years of working her ass off as a bail bonds(wo)man. She’d recently brought in a guy who was skipping on child support (there was a special spot in hell for people who did that), and had been _generously_ rewarded by his ex-wife. She just happened to be the heiress of the TGI Friday’s empire. 

 

Her place was not perfect by any means. The radiator made a horrible hissing noise, the ceiling had water damage, and when she sat on the toilet her knees touched the wall, but it had two bedrooms and a gorgeous bay window. Henry loved the fact that he had his own space, and she loved seeing her son so happy. So not perfect, but pretty damn close. 

 

Except for one minor detail…

 

The building had clearly been made so as to save as much money as possible and all the air vents seemed to be connected. Which meant that they could hear and smell everything coming from the apartment directly below them very clearly. She’d learned that 7B was a very good cook, watched TV very late at night, was British, and liked to engage in screaming matches over the phone (unless he was screaming at himself, which wouldn’t surprise her after everything she’d seen in this life). 

 

He was also a smoker. 

 

When she was younger, it wouldn’t have bothered her so much. She’d grown up around much, _much_ worse. She’d gone to prison for the love of God. She could handle a little bit of secondhand smoke. 

 

But hell would have to freeze over before she let her son be exposed to it.

 

One night, when the smoke was particularly strong and Henry had begun to cough (it could’ve been because he had a cold, but that was a minor detail), she’d angrily stormed downstairs in nothing but an oversized t-shirt. As soon as she reached 8B she began banging on it without a moment’s hesitation. She heard shuffling as he presumably looked through the peephole and then the door swung open. 

 

He certainly was pretty; she’d give him that. He must’ve been a struggling musician, he had the look down pat. He was wearing a black button down and a leather vest. His pants were so tight she was surprised he hadn’t lost circulation in his legs. Kohl-rimmed blue eyes regarded her with mild interest, his mouth quirked at the corner in a lecherous smirk. 

 

She probably should’ve worn pants. 

 

“Can I help you, love?” he asked. 

 

Normally, she might’ve been a little thrown by the voice and the outfit and the obvious beauty, but she was a woman on a mission. Not to mention the fact that he reeked of cheap booze and he had a lit cigarette in between his lips. 

 

“Yes,” she shot back, and his face dropped at her tone. “I’m 8B. You know, the apartment right above you? I can hear and _smell_ everything coming from here, and that,” she pointed to the offensive little cancer stick in his mouth. “Is a problem.” 

 

She expected a lot of things. She expected an apology. She expected him to yell at her. She expected him to laugh. She did not expect him to turn on his heel and slam the door in her face.

 

Which is exactly what he did. 

 

Emma stood there for a brief moment, brain trying to process this turn of events. She noticed the little piece of white paper on his knocker, telling her his last name was Jones. 

 

_Jones._

 

Her anger hit her like a tidal wave; slamming into her and knocking the air out of her lungs. She was banging on the door again, somehow with more force than before. “Jones,” she screamed. “Get back out here, we’re going to talk about this!” 

 

She was met with the sound of heavy metal music; some god awful guitar solo drowning out her shouting. Finally, with a huff and a childish stomp, she had to admit defeat. 

 

She may have lost the battle, but she’d win the war. 

 

**OOO**

 

Two weeks passed and she endured. She endured the smoke that rose twice daily and permeated the air in her apartment. She endured as her pillows, and blankets, and clothes began to smell like an ashtray. 

 

She endured and she simmered. 

 

She’d tried to call her super and get him to do something about it, but he’d told her it was her problem. She’d stuffed the vent with various household items, but Henry had informed her that was a fire hazard and forced her to stop. She’d even gone down there a few more times, but every time she was greeted with the sound of angry rock music. 

 

It wasn’t her fault if she was a little on edge. 

 

So, when she returned to her apartment after a particularly hard day (a perp had shoved her into a fountain and she was soaking wet), and her living room smelled like cigarettes, she snapped. She could hear the strumming of a guitar coming from the vent, so she knew he was in there. 

 

Without thinking, she leaned down and shouted, “stop smoking,” into the vent rather aggressively. 

 

The music abruptly cut off, and there was a beat before she heard him tentatively call out. “Hello?” 

 

She should’ve figured sound traveled both ways, but for some reason, she hadn’t really expected him to hear her. Or maybe she hadn’t expected him to respond. Either way, she didn’t say anything back.

 

He tried again. “Who is this?” he asked, sounding vaguely miffed. 

 

She answered without thinking, per usual. “God.” 

 

She heard his chuckle as though he was standing right next to her. “Ah. God. Been a while, hasn’t it?” 

 

Emma was surprised at the slightly dark answer. It sounded like something she’d say. “Well you know, just thought I’d jump in before you did something stupid like ruining your body and dying.” 

 

“I’ll take that into consideration. Anything else?” 

 

Emma decided that he sounded genuine. “That’s all.” 

 

She expected that to be it, so she was surprised when his voice rang through the metal one more time. “God?” 

 

Emma’s curiosity piqued. “Yes?”

 

There was a pause. “I’d be very appreciative if you’d give my apologies to the gorgeous blonde in 8B. She caught me on a bad week.” 

 

Emma milled over his words. He was trying to be charming, clearly, but there was something else in his voice. A need for her to understand that he was sincerely sorry. “She’s not nearly as forgiving as I am, but I’ll be sure to pass along the message.”

 

He laughed. 

 

**OOO**

 

Three days later, a Sunday, she returned home from the store to find him standing outside her place. He smiled at her and plucked the groceries she was carrying right out of her hands. 

 

“What’re you doing here?” she asked, bewilderment in her voice. 

 

“Came to learn your name,” he said, nodding towards her own placard on the door. “Swan. It’s pretty. Suits you; they’re vicious birds.” 

 

Emma let out some sort of grunt, still too confused to properly form words, as she pushed open her door. She didn’t even process the fact that he was entering her apartment until he was putting eggs into the fridge. “What’re you doing?” she shouted.

 

“Unloading your bag. Where do you keep your,” he turned the box he was holding over in his hand. “…Strawberry Poptarts?” His nose wrinkled in what she assumed was disgust. “These look horrible, Swan. What are they?”

 

She stared at him, shocked. “You’ve never had a Poptart before?” Jones shook his head and she quickly crossed the room and grabbed the box, ripping it open. 

 

“I’m about to change your life. Prepare yourself,” she instructed as she shoved two pastries into the toaster. 

 

He chuckled. “I’m waiting with baited breath,” he replied as he took a seat at her kitchen table. Silence filled the room for a moment before he asked, “where’s your son?”

 

“How’d you know I had a son?” Emma was momentarily distracted as the toaster dinged. She quickly grabbed two plates and put the Poptarts on them. Still awaiting his answer, she placed his plate in front of him and looked at him expectantly. 

 

Jones smiled at her sheepishly as she took a seat opposite him. “I hear you all sometimes, though the vents.”

 

“He’s with a friend,” she replied. It suddenly dawned on her that he wasn’t just down here to learn her last name, he was here because he was lonely. “I hear you sometimes too, talking, well, yelling at someone on the phone.” 

 

Jones cringed, but before she could regret bringing it up, he was nodding. “Milah. I should apologize for that. She is, well, _was_ my girlfriend. We broke up a few weeks back. That’s part of the reason why I was so unforgivably rude to you.”

 

“Understandable,” Emma replied. She held out her Poptart. “Cheers.” 

 

Jones smiled and touched his pastry to hers. She watched as he took a bite, his face turning speculative as he chewed. “Interesting,” he mumbled.

 

“Good.” She refused to accept anything less.

 

Jones swallowed and laughed. “Decent,” he replied. 

 

**OOO**

 

He told her his name was Killian

 

She didn’t tell him her name. 

 

He came by nearly every night that week and the next. It had only taken Henry a moment to decide he liked him. Mostly because Killian knew how to play FIFA, but not enough to beat him. 

  
Emma decided she liked him too. He was charming, regaling her with ridiculous stories about his time in the Royal Navy while she playfully rolled her eyes. It was only late one night, after a few drinks, when he told her how he’d lost his brother and his hand in a fight that culminated in an honorable discharge that she realized it’d taken its toll as well. 

 

That was the night she told him about Neal. She hadn’t given much in the way of details, but she’d offered up the information, which was a big deal for her. He asked if she ever missed him. She told him you couldn’t miss something you’d never truly had. 

 

On a different night, a night when they were both sober, he told her about Milah. She’d been married. He’d known that when he’d chosen to get involved with her. Emma could tell he expected her to judge him when he disclosed that information, but she’d just placed a hand on his prosthetic and nodded. He told her that he had loved Milah, more than anything, and that when she’d finally left her husband he thought they could be together properly. But she was unwilling to commit and so he left. 

 

He was her first friend in a long time. Maybe in forever. So when she looked out the window one night to see him smoking in the parking lot, she was pissed. She had half a mind to go outside and tear into him. She didn’t have his phone number, they communicated through the vents, so it wasn’t like she could call him and tell him she could see him smoking. 

 

It must’ve been divine intervention that she had her laptop open, and that she accidentally opened up her AirDrop, and that a laptop that wasn’t hers appeared as an option. She stared at the innocent little computer icon and the “Killian Jones’ Laptop” beneath it confirming that it was, in fact, his. 

 

She smiled.

 

Whipping out her phone, she began to record him through the window. She zoomed in a ridiculous amount, so that his face was so pixellated it was unrecognizable. She then tapped the button to turn the camera, but she’d forgotten to zoom back out, so it was just her eyebrow. “Shit,” she muttered as she frantically slid her fingers against the screen until her whole face was in view. She smiled briefly at her success, before she realized she was supposed to be scolding and gave the camera her “disappointed mom” face. “Shame,” she said and then she did the universal symbol of “I’m watching you,” before she turned the video off. Satisfied, she emailed it to herself, opened it on her computer, and dropped it into his laptop. 

 

Two hours later, she got a video back. It was him looking like a schoolboy who’d just been chastised. She waited for him to say something, but he just stared at the camera.

 

Suddenly, he zoomed in, so that it was just a close-up of his nose. “Sorry,” he said jovially. 

 

She laughed so hard she cried. 

 

**OOO**

 

She was just stepping out of the shower when she heard him screaming. 

 

“Swan! Swan, are you bloody there? SWAN!”

 

She ran over to the vent, wrapped only in a towel, stomach dropping to her feet. “What? I’m here, what is it?” 

 

“Is your cable working?”

 

Emma’s heart, which had stopped beating, suddenly started working again as she processed his words. Anger made her body flush. “What?” 

 

“Is your cable working?” he said again, clearly irked that she was making him repeat himself.

 

“You gave me a heart attack!” She bellowed. 

 

“Yes, yes, you can punish me later. Can you tell me if your cable is working? Mine’s out and the season finale of Grey’s Anatomy is on tonight and I can’t-”

 

All the anger left as quickly as it had arrived. “You watch Grey’s Anatomy?” 

 

He didn’t reply

 

Emma began to laugh hysterically. “Oh my god you do! You listen to heavy metal and you wear eyeliner and leather and you watch _Grey’s Anatomy_! What drew you to the show? Was it the heart-wrenching medical cases, or Meredith and Derek’s epic love story, or was it all the super hot male doctors? I know that’s what did it for me-”

 

Killian managed to form words again. “Very funny, Swan. Is your cable working or not?”

 

She was still laughing. “It is.”

 

“I’ll be right there.” 

 

Thirty seconds later, when he arrived panting from _running_ up the steps, she began to giggle all over again. He promptly told herself to piss off and planted himself in front of the TV and refused to let her speak.

 

He took Grey’s very seriously. 

 

It was only when he was on his way out that he seemed mildly sheepish.

 

“Thank you for letting me watch it in here,” he said, scratching behind his ear like he usually did when he was embarrassed. 

 

Emma smiled, enjoying his discomfort. “No, no, thank you! Watching you cry as Alex saved that baby made my whole month.

 

Killian pouted like a petulant child. “I didn’t cry.”

 

Emma shot him a patronizing look. “Of course not.”

 

“Whatever,” Killian replied as he turned to leave. 

 

“Killian,” Emma, grabbed his arm and pulled him back to her. “You can watch in here anytime.”

 

He studied her for a long time. She was just about to ask what was wrong when he spoke again. “Swan?” 

 

Emma shuffled uncomfortably under his gaze. “Yup?” She cringed as her voice came out ridiculously high. 

 

Suddenly, Killian was the one who looked nervous. He began to look everywhere in the room except for her. “I was thinking, that, well perhaps, that, that you’d like to, um…”

 

Emma sensed where he was going, and, rather than make his life easier, she decided to give him a hard time. “Spit it out.”

 

His voice came out in a rush. “That maybe you’d like to go somewhere other than our apartments. Together. Go out. Go out together.”

 

Emma did her best not to smirk. “Are you asking me on a date?”

 

“Only if you’re saying yes.” 

 

“My name is Emma.” She didn’t know where it had come from, her tongue seemingly working on its own accord. 

 

He started, not expecting that. “What?”

 

Emma laughed. “My name, my first name, is Emma, and I have one condition. Quit smoking.”

 

Killian smiled. “Emma.” 

 

The next day, Killian put on his first nicotine patch. 

 

A year and a half later, they moved in together. 

 

It was, after all, much easier than talking through vents.


End file.
